Crazy Guy: In the Crosshairs

So I was just minding my own business, waiting patiently at the light at 45th and Lamar, when I noticed the guy in front of me. He was a middle-aged dude on a motorcycle, wearing a white wife beater and khaki shorts, no helmet. A bit of a paunch, a sloucher. Meh. Then (it's a long light),  I began noticing that the bike was a blue BMW with black saddle bags and plates from Georgia. Finally, something clicked, and my first thought was, "Nooo waaaayy!" It was Crazy Guy. Yep. There he was—mere inches from the fender of my car, doing that neck-cracking thing that dumb guys always do when they feel bored. Thought: "Oooh, I'd like to crack that neck myself, you big, mean @#$%^&*."

My next thought was, "I could totally run Crazy Guy over. Right now." The thrill of the power was a little dizzying. Next thought, "Why not?" (Eighth or tenth thought--when it was too late, "Dammit. I drive a Toyota. I could have totally burned him and then blamed the 'accident' on my sticky accelerator pedal." Ninth or eleventh thought: "What is wrong with you? You'd never get away with it in a million years.")

I studied CG while we waited for the light to change. I knew that I could never actually run over Crazy Guy with my vehicle or even roll down the window and threaten to. After all, those are his M.O.'s. I did, however, follow him for a little bit, completely innocently; after all, his house is on a major road that I normally take to go home. But I felt suspense, as if I were waiting for something to happen. What exactly? Ooh, I know. He falls off his bike, and then I run over him. Oops! Or he gets into an accident and then I slow down, roll down the window, and laugh "HAHAHAHA, you @#$%^&&." Or , he cuts somebody off and makes a scene, and then I stop and get out and tell the cops that he's a known offender and probably packing. Or. . . or . . . I couldn't really think of anything that would not make me look like a complete maniac. So I did the only reasonable thing I could do. I rolled to a stop next to him at 45th and Shoal Creek and then flipped him the bird as I turned. He never noticed. CG notices nothing except the messed-up car crash-dog snuff films in his own head. What a schmuck.

So, take note. Crazy Guy is out of jail and back on his bike. He's just a @##$$%^, but it's best to leave him be. Let's be careful (and sane) out there this holiday weekend.
Take care, z

Red State Update: Notes from Muzzy's Homeland

There are still times when I wonder what is wrong with Muzzy; for example, the days when she horks up undigestible grackle feathers or gnaws for hours on the recently recovered chuck-it ball that had been decomposing under the back porch for more than a year. And then, I remember, she is from Oklahoma, the land where dinosaurs still roam the earth. Don't believe me?

Michael, uncle to our young friend Lydia and brother to Metacranky Colleen, sent us these photos of a creature from the land that time forgot. Sheesh. Uncle Michael spends busy days fixing broken machinery, hauling cattle, and driving to the dump but still has time to e-mail us scary pictures. (UM says that his new friend really stinks, too.) Thanks for the red state update, Michael!

-z

Waning Wildflowers

I took my camera to Dog Park last night. I wondered if I could find anything new to snap. We've had an amazing wildflower season, but it peaked long ago. The fields are in a sorry state--half mowed, half covered with shaggy, dried up stalks. To my surprise, though, amidst the spear grass and burrs, I discovered thistle and red poppies, flowers I have never seen at Dog Park before.

Can you see the ladybug in the bottom part of the cluster of blossoms?

Such a sky and not a drop of rain.
-z

Doglers

A few days ago, Erica reminded me to check out one of my favorite Web sites, Schott's Vocab. The word of the day was doglers,  defined as "dogless dog lovers who ogle other people's pooches." (The verb form is to dogle. Perfect!) I was once a serious dogler. Until I got Roma, I swooned at the sight of any and every dog. "Adogadogadogadog!" I would squeal from the passenger seat as we passed one on the street. I wanted to lay hands on every one I met--to ruffle its ears, pat its tummy, and smooth its brow. Logic dictates that the best way to remedy this ridiculous response to the mere sighting of a dog was to get me one. I am sure that my boyfriend expected the utter mundanity of walking, feeding, and scooping up after a dog of my own would cure me. Alas, after 15 years of dog ownership, I am still a dogler.

And Dog Park provides the perfect opportunity. So many dogs, so many ears to squinch and butts to pat. The proximity of big dogs (Labs Barney and Dooley, @120 lbs apiece, with their pancake-sized ears), pocket dogs (peanut-sized Daisy, Sadie, and Andy), tough dogs (Bandit and Elphie), scruffy dogs (Dasher and Willie), herders (Cocoa, Bindi, and Daisy the heeler), sleek dogs (Naya, Bailey and Mindy), low dogs (Arlo the basset), ball chasers (Joey and Wilson), and singing dogs (Elsa the coonhound as well as Teddy and Frankie) makes me a little giddy. I just love to pat them and to marvel at how different they all are.

Muzzy is less happy about my ogling than Roma ever was. Roma was too busy making the rounds, running her treat-stealing scams and searching for illicit tidbits to care about what I was doing. Talk about a confident dog. Muzzy, however, is more sensitive about my cooing at others, and so I try to rein in (or leash) myself a bit. I can't help it. We always think we want what we don't have. I love the Muzz, but I do sometimes wish she were small enough to carry in the crook of my arm or had spots or was a little less spazzy. So we have a simple deal--one that will sound familiar to any Parker. What happens at Park, stays at Park. I don't talk about other dogs at home, and Muzzy sits firmly at the center of my universe.
-z